“Jean-Michel” is the Jean-Michel Basquiat documentary we’ve been waiting for — the fantastic one he deserves. Over the years, there have been a sprinkling of films built around Basquiat, like the boho vérité snapshot “Downtown 81” (2000) or “Boom for Real: The Late Teenage Years of Jean-Michel Basquiat” (2018), which captured the period in the late ’70s after he’d broken with his family, when he was a scene-maker cultivating the seeds of his art and fame. Both those films are heady time capsules, and so, in a different way, is Julian Schnabel’s “Basquiat” (1996), a biopic — starring the hypnotic Jeffrey Wright — that was way ahead of the curve in recognizing the poetic sway of Basquiat’s art and image.

But “Jean-Michel,” directed by Quinn Whitney Wilson and Viridiana Lieberman (it just premiered at the Tribeca Festival and was bought by Netflix), is the first movie to penetrate the Basquiat mystique and give you a full-scale portrait of who he was: New York child of privilege, driven prodigy, bohemian scavenger, downtown rock star, thrill-seeking junkie, media celebrity, meditative soul, spiky and timeless art genius. It’s the first Basquiat film to be made in cooperation with his family, who provided the archive — home movies, photographs, sketches, notebooks — that fills in Basquiat’s life as never before.

When the family estate cooperates in a biography, it can mean the rough edges are sanded off — that you’re getting a burnished, officially approved portrait. But that’s not what happens in “Jean-Michel.” I’m sure there are sordid details that were left on the cutting-room floor (and it’s jarring that the movie leaves out his relationship with the artist Suzanne Mallouk), but the film is bracingly direct about who Basquiat was, his many dimensions and contradictions. He was a singularly charismatic and, by most accounts, ingratiating person, so it’s not like the film has to fudge that, but he could also be moody and jealous and ruthless (at an opening at the Whitney, he used a pen to deface one of Schnabel’s paintings). He was like a planet revolving around himself, and the film does justice to the light and dark sides of that orbit.

The closest thing “Jean-Michel” has to an agenda is to undercut a stubbornly persistent dimension of the Basquiat legend: that he was a “primitive” genius who rose up out of the streets. It’s important to say that we have this image, in part, because it was cultivated by Basquiat himself. But the media dug the myth a little too much; their consuming embrace of it carried a racist undertone, as if Basquiat could only be understood as a derelict version of virtuosity.   

It’s true, of course, that he started off as an underground graffiti artist who named himself SAMO (for “same old shit”) and ultimately crossed over to the gallery world. And it’s true that he went through a self-styled homeless period. But “Jean-Michel” fills in the ground floor of his life — that his father, Gerard, a Haitian immigrant who became a New York businessman, and his mother, Matilde, a fourth-generation Puerto Rican, raised him and his two younger sisters in a Brooklyn brownstone that the family owned. They were a close-knit clan, and Jean-Michel was doted on by his mother. He attended private school and wanted to be a cartoonist. But he’s described by his adult sisters, Lisane and Jeanine, as a ball of unruly energy who couldn’t settle down in class; he was too much of a rebel dreamer.

His life took a turn after he was hit by a car (at age 7), and his parents divorced. (In the film, the prospect of losing his family devastated the young Jean-Michel.) Matilde, who had cultivated the love of art in him, declined into mental illness once she was on her own, and his father was basically a 1950s straight-arrow who wanted to shoehorn Jean-Michel into the American Dream. Jean-Michel was having none of that, so in his teens, stoked by the post-punk fervor of the late ’70s, he ran away from home. It’s crucial to note that this was happening at a moment, at least in New York, when squatting had become hip. Madonna did it too, and she and Basquiat had a fling as she was on the verge of fame.

What’s striking about Basquiat’s creativity, which the documentary captures with a seductive, voluminous presentation of the development of his art, is that he was a fountain that never turned off. We see samples of his art as a child, and there’s no question that as he got older he deliberately hung onto and refined elements of that blotchy, scalding style; he saw the expression of his childhood self as the ultimate freedom. Yet by the time he’d reached his teens (he began painting at 15), and was selling postcards on the street for a few dollars, his work had begun to acquire the vibratory quality that made it seem like you were staring at psychological X-rays. “There is no filter,” says one observer. “You’re looking inside his brain.” That’s exactly the talismanic quality of Basquiat’s paintings. He used mixed media (words, collage, geometric piping, icons like the repeated use of a crown, erupting scrawls) to make it feel like you were downloading his soul in its distilled form. The paintings were incantations, shot through with rapture and anxiety, threaded with a secret coded history of the culture. Basquiat looked into himself and saw the world — of Black experience, and of American experience — and then reflected that world back to us.

Growing up, Jean-Michel Basquiat chose to be a drifting bohemian, but the nightclub culture that became his second home was starting to interact with the media in a new way. We see clips of Basquiat on “TV Party,” the New York cable public-access show, where he sat around with people like Christ Stein and Fab 5 Freddy. For a while, his hair is shaved into a widow’s-peak dagger, but what’s disarming about his presence is how gentle and gregarious it is. We see interview segments where he lets his guard down, and also ones where he reveals himself by revealing next to nothing. He’s notably more wary in the interviews he began to give when he was getting famous. One takes place in his loft studio, and as the interviewer nudges him with questions about a painting, all tethered to a kind of racist skepticism (Why did you make that choice? Is it all arbitrary?), Basquiat fends off the cluelessness by creating an aura of invincibility around himself very much like that of Bob Dylan in the mid-’60s.

If you go to see a Jean-Michel Basquiat retrospective (and this movie has the effect of one), it’s astonishing to confront everything he painted, and the maturity of it, all before he died at the age of 27. It’s no hype to say that he can remind one of Picasso. There is only one Picasso, but Basquiat had that kind of fecund imagination, that endlessly varied and prolific joy. He worked fast, and took refuge in his work much as Picasso did. By the time he became buddies with Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel was the one doing the inspiring. The movie colors in their friendship, which we can see was quite close; they each got something out of the other, but it’s also clear that they adored each other. That’s why Warhol, after decades of not painting by hand, was moved to start again, in what became a collaborative project. The critics hated it, and they were too harsh; they couldn’t process the dual authorship, and by then they had turned, almost reflexively, on Warhol. The bad response soured the friendship….and then Warhol died. This left Jean-Michel without the mentor who had been a fulcrum for him.                  

He returned to his family, showing up in Brooklyn in a limo one day, handing out money, but in a way he was lost. Jennifer Goode, a girlfriend of his from 1984 to 1988, tells the story of his heroin addiction (she was his partner in junk), and how they would go to Hawaii so that he could get clean. They travelled extensively for his art openings around the world, and Jean-Michel would power through when he was someplace where he couldn’t get drugs. He should have gone to rehab, but he was deeply private, like Philip Seymour Hoffman, who also felt himself to be invincible and used heroin to self-medicate his way into an early grave. The film presents some evidence that Basquiat, near the end, was losing interest in art (he talked about wanting to become a writer). But I don’t believe that. He lived and breathed painting; it’s hard to conceive of him abandoning it. The paintings, of course, now sell for so much that they have put him on that rarefied level, along with Van Gogh and Francis Bacon and Picasso. There are still Basquiat doubters who think that’s a travesty. Don’t listen to them. Decide for yourself by seeing “Jean-Michel.”

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

Like many other people, I was quite simply blown away by Obsession, Curry Barker’s horror film that’s taken the world and the box office by storm. It’s one of those films that held me rapt from the very beginning and, as its plot unfolded and as the horrors piled up on each other, I kept wondering just what was going to happen next and how much further things were going to go off the rails. Like the best horror, it’s a rather simple story–Michael Johnston’s Bear pines for his friend Nikki (Inde Navarrette) and makes a wish on a novelty toy for her to love him more than anyone else, with predictably disastrous consequences–and it’s in its simplicity that its power rests. It speaks to so many of the issues plaguing us today, particularly surrounding young men, and it’s the kind of film I’ll be thinking about and wrestling with for months.

The moment Bear breaks that little toy stick and invokes his wish, Nikki seems to become a totally different person. She’s no longer the fierce, independent spirit he fell in love with. Instead, her entire existence revolves around him and her desperate (and increasingly terrifying) need to impress him. As Bear soon learns, obsessive love–of precisely the kind he’s harbored for Nikki all these years–can be a very unpleasant thing when it’s inflicted by some sort of supernatural entity. When you wish for someone to love you more than anyone else in the world, you have to contend with the fact that obsession destroys.

This is the kind of horror film that truly gets under your skin and into the back of your mind, lodging there and refusing to leave. In part, this is because Barker has a keen sense of suspense and framing, with the narrative and the camera working in tandem to keep us, like Bear, uncertain about what’s going to happen next. I was particularly struck by the way that Nikki’s appearance changes the moment that stick breaks. She’s repeatedly backlit–whether by the lights of her own porch or the stoop to Bear’s house–which means we see her the same way Nick does: as a sort of menacing dark presence, only her eyes gleaming in the light. Bear, of course, is too oblivious–and too blinded by his overwhelming “love” for Nikki–to sense that something might be amiss, at least not until it’s too late.

I lost count of the number of times in this film where I gripped the edges of my seat, absolutely dreading what was going to happen next, and it must be said that a great deal of the film’s terror comes from Inde Navarrette’s truly electrifying and captivating performance. She gives us just enough in the first few moments before Nikki’s possession for us to get a sense of who she is as a person before the horrors unfold. As her alternative self becomes ever more unhinged in her devotion to Bear–watching him while he sleeps at night, screaming at him to love her, staying in one place all day so as not to risk his anger (and covering herself with urine and vomit in the process)–we find ourselves missing who she once was and wondering how much of her original self is left.

There’s also something insidiously brilliant about the way the film toys with our affiliation as viewers. On the one hand, Johnston’’s performance as Bear makes him ever-so-slightly sympathetic, at least up until a point (though young men fruitlessly pining after women who don’t want them always involves a certain level of creepiness). Things change, though, when he calls the help number on the toy and hears the real Nikki screaming in torment while her alternative self continues her absolute devotion to Bear. It’s at this point that our sympathies with him–assuming they ever existed at all–start to curdle into hostility. When, a short time later, the real Nikki surfaces briefly to beg him to kill her so she can be freed from her horrible existence, the only thing Bear can think to do is to ask why she couldn’t have loved him, before leaving her behind. It was at this point that I leaned over to my viewing partner and whispered, “he has to die.” I said this not just because the narrative required it but also because, in the film’s own logic, Bear has earned his eventual fate. It takes quite a brave film to turn its hero into a villain, and I give Barker a lot of credit for making this choice.

When it comes to the film’s message, however, I’m a little torn. Now, we all know that horror, perhaps more than any other genre, is a genre predicated on saying something, whether explicitly or implicitly. Horror films work on us because they tap into the things we collectively fear or are anxious about, whether it’s immigration, bodily autonomy, or race relations in the US. On the surface, at least, Obsession seems to be arguing that young men’s obsession with viewing women as nothing more than emotional appendages to their desires, and to a certain degree it succeeds, at least if one starts to see Bear as the villain of the piece. However, the film also falls into a double-bind of its own creation, because at the end of the day this is still Bear’s film: we’re sutured into his POV, we see Nikki as a source of horror and terror through his eyes, and he ultimately gets to escape the mess of his own creation through dying.

It’s also more than a little revealing that the film’s most gruesome acts of violence are acted out on the very bodies of the women with whom we are, according to the film’s narrative and political logic, supposed to be identifying. Bear’s friend Sarah (Megan Lawless) suffers especially egregiously in this regard, when an enraged Nikki bludgeons her to death, the camera leaving nothing to the imagination as, once again, a woman’s mutilated body is offered up as spectacle. It’s also worth noting that Nikki’s body also bears the wounds of her possession, whether it’s standing in one place all day or, in a gut-wrenching moment, when the real Nikki stabs herself in an effort to free herself from her imprisonment and torment. As so often in the movies, women’s bodies bear the punishment for men’s cruelty and desires.

What, then, are we to make of the ending? Yes, Bear has died (somewhat inadvertently) by his own hand, a fitting punishment, perhaps, for the suffering his selfishness has caused. But what of Nikki? She might finally be liberated from the possession Bear’s thoughtless wish inflicted upon her, but she’s the one left to pick up the pieces of both her shattered life and the bodies strewn around her. I highly doubt the legal system is going to be very understanding of her plight, since last I checked “an evil toy made me do it” isn’t a valid legal defense. At best, she can look forward to a life in either an institution or prison, forced to live with the trauma of her imprisonment in her own body, her murder of two of her friends (she also shoots Ian, the fourth member of the friend group, during the climax), and the fact that one of her best friends took control of her body and kept doing it even when he knew what he was doing.

So, I must admit that I’m a bit more mixed about Obsession than I thought I would be. While I think it’s remarkably effective and terrifying and horrifying as a piece of horror cinema, the ends to which it puts those sensations leaves me feeling rather cold. But then, perhaps I’m being unfair. The double bind of patriarchy–and the ubiquity of patriarchal methods of meaning-making within cinema–means that it’s almost impossible to show the toll that it takes on women without indulging in the very system itself. If nothing else, then, Obsession reminds us that horror films still have much to say and, if they manage to make us think and force us to grapple with the deep issues of our time, then all the better.

It’s not often that I remark on a casting announcement, much less one about “Scooby-Doo,” but the second I opened an email from Netflix, my jaw dropped.

A chocolate brown Great Dane puppy with blue eyes and a teal collar sitting on a tile floor gazed at me from my computer screen — I squealed. I mean, look at him. His floppy ears, grumpy little face and paws you just want to shake hands with. He’s perfect.

“Scooby-Doo: Origins” is the streamer’s upcoming live-action series, slated for release in 2027, featuring this mystery-solving pup. It marks the first time a real dog has played Scooby-Doo. For many viewers, their first exposure to Scooby and his gang was via the ‘70s Hanna-Barbera animated version, which aired on Cartoon Network in reruns in the ‘90s and early aughts, or the reboots on ABC and the WB, now the CW, more recently. Several live-action theatrical and TV films have been made over the years, but they’ve always featured a computer-generated dog. Yes, that means it took nearly six decades to have a real-life Scooby.

The previously announced cast includes key players in the Scooby gang: Mckenna Grace as Daphne Blake, Tanner Hagen as Shaggy Rogers, Abby Ryder Fortson as Velma Dinkley and Maxwell Jenkins as Fred Jones. Paul Walter Hauser is also slated to appear as a series regular in an unnamed role. Showrunners Josh Appelbaum and Scott Rosenberg helm the series.

According to the show’s logline, it’s a “modern reimagining of the iconic mystery-solving group of teens and their very special dog” that takes place at summer camp. Said dog may have been witness to a supernatural murder, leading the group of teens to set out to solve the case. It’s an origin story for Scooby and his gang.

While I wouldn’t consider myself a “Scooby-Doo” superfan, I am a fan of very cute dogs. I’ll have my Scooby snacks ready in case we ever cross paths.